


Do Not Disturb

by dogeared



Series: Nantucket AU [30]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-17
Updated: 2007-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Disturb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aesc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/gifts).



Rodney has to shove the stupid electronic keycard into the slot three times (John standing hot and close behind him) before it finally blinks green and the door handle turns under his hand. John pushes him inside, pushes him up against the wall before the door's even clicked shut and kisses his mouth just left of center and murmurs, "Hi there, Dr. McKay."

"Hi," Rodney says, feeling himself flush, "are you my groupie?" and it comes out a lot more breathless than he means for it to.

John nods, says low and mock-serious, "You got it. I had to beat the rest of them off with a big stick," and he leans in again with obvious dirty intent. Of which Rodney plans to make good and repeated use, but first— "No, wait, can you just," Rodney motions to the bed, "Over there?"

Something about the way John eases back onto the bed makes Rodney think of their little yard, of John sprawled loose and careless in an adirondack chair in the afternoon sun, aviators on so that Rodney can't tell whether he's asleep or awake (watching Rodney while Rodney watches him).

Rodney takes the time to look and look, sits down next to John, pushes John's shirt up and rubs a hand absently back and forth across the span of his hairy belly. "I missed you, even though it's ridiculous, it's only been a few days, I know . . . " John reaches for him and cuts him off, pulls Rodney down half on top of him, cups the back of Rodney's head and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and how the hell did Rodney get so lucky? "You have to—" John urges him closer, kisses him lushly, slowly, "—to tell me about the whales," Rodney says against John's lips, "but maybe, um, maybe later."

John smells like the island, impossibly, since he's doubtless been on all sorts of public transportation to get here (to get _here to Rodney_ ), buffeted by recycled air and packed in with strangers, but Rodney thinks that he smells like he does when he's been surfing at Madaquecham—like seaweed and sand and sunscreen and adrenaline, hair thick with salt and even more unruly than usual, grinning like a lunatic, like he's already suffered the brain damage that Rodney warns him about every time—he smells so good, and Rodney licks his throat and under his ear, searches out the taste of salt, slides his hand up John's chest and feels his heartbeat like waves on the shore and he's home, home, home, even in a city a thousand miles from their porch, their tiny kitchen, their wide couch.

And John fed the cetologists to the whales (or something) and came all this way just to see Rodney be brilliant (and he was, he _so_ was)—Rodney sits up again and pulls John's t-shirt over his head and off, cards his fingers through John's hair just the right way to make him moan, to make his soft mouth fall open so that Rodney can apply his Theories of Reducing John Sheppard to a Puddle and kiss him as deeply and thoroughly as he knows how. He leaves John with a wet, swollen mouth, bites his way leisurely down his neck, makes him yelp with a sucking kiss to his ribs while he unbuttons John's jeans.

John shifts to pet Rodney's neck and shoulders restlessly when Rodney takes him in hand, studies him, strokes him consideringly, tastes him and swallows him down, and this rush is even better than the lecture, because his audience is just John, and he's arching and coming apart, coming, coming in Rodney's mouth and spilling more across his own stomach and the stiff, tasteful bedspread when Rodney pulls off, a beautiful, messy, familiar, living thing marking Rodney's anonymous hotel room.

Rodney rubs his thumb through the mess on John's belly until John finally opens his eyes again, blinks at Rodney and stretches utterly shamelessly and says, "So there was this huge right whale that _totally_ tried to capsize us . . . "

"Later! Later!" Rodney squawks, and John laughs and rolls on top of him, hot and heavy and perfect, and it's a long time before either of them says anything else.


End file.
